


Let's Get Gory (Like a Tarantino Movie)

by unoriginalrhombus



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 16:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unoriginalrhombus/pseuds/unoriginalrhombus
Summary: "Santana has no one to blame but herself, really. She knew the moment Kurt had cosied up to her that morning that he was up to something devious. It wasn’t just the glitter blazer with the pearl collar that had ignited her suspicions either - no. Whether he was dragging Santana to speed dating or blackmailing her into volunteering with some tragically out of tune youth, Kurt was always up to something."AKA the one where Quinn and Santana both get seasonal jobs at Macy's and fall in love / hate with one another, while also discovering who they are.





	Let's Get Gory (Like a Tarantino Movie)

**Author's Note:**

> OH HAI
> 
> I guess it's been two years. Funny, I somehow got drawn in again to this pairing. It may be rough goings for a bit, I wrote this fairly quickly and I feel as though I am still finding their voices. 
> 
> Also, Quinntana is endgame. Pezberry is in the beginning. Don't hate me. 
> 
> Please drop a comment, a note, or shoot me a message!

Santana has no one to blame but herself, really.

She knew the moment Kurt had cosied up to her that morning that he was up to something devious. It wasn’t just the glitter blazer with the pearl collar that had ignited her suspicions either - no. Whether he was dragging Santana to speed dating or blackmailing her into volunteering with some tragically out of tune youth, Kurt was always up to  _ something. _

Perhaps Santana had been blinded by the early morning sun. Perhaps she had been caught off guard by Kurt’s insanely white teeth. Either way, Santana had cautiously accepted Kurt’s enthusiastic invitation, naively hoping that she would receive compensation that would make the ill-fated adventure actually bearable. Preferably, she would have liked to receive some top shelf booze for her troubles. But she would have settled for free food and bottomless mimosas.

Honestly, anything would have been better than  _ this. _

_This_ being Santana crammed into a too small room with fourteen other people, all of whom were preparing for a group interview for seasonal positions at Macy’s. Santana’s spent the last fifteen minutes surrounded by a bunch of sad sacks who look like they get their jollies from Swiss Miss Cocoa, and it is extremely depressing. 

She sighs dramatically, for what must be the fifteenth time in four minutes, before giving Kurt a pointed look that she hopes properly expresses her irritation at her current situation.

Kurt narrows his eyes in response, his perfectly coiffed hair remaining still as he tilts his head to the side. “Would you stop whining? You’re giving me a migraine.”

Santana reaches across the space between them and pats Kurt affectionately on his knee. “Please. We both know that’s the result of having to constantly fight the voices in your head. Think Faye Dunaway. Just more shrill.”

“Really. You want to have this discussion now?” Kurt clutches his collar in feigned surprise.

Santana shrugs her shoulders neither in affirmation or dissent, and smirks at Kurt. 

Kurt drops his hand and gives Santana a pointed look. “Santana, we both know that you are a capable adult who could have left at any time. Stop trying to pretend that this is beneath you. You are not that much of a top.”

Santana bristles and crosses her arms. “Have the delusions finally fragmented your fragile mind? No offense, but actually, all the offense. I personally have no plans to stick around while you go all  John Forbes Nash Jr . I was only in it for the free food. Of which there currently is none, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Stop it with all of the  _ A Beautiful Mind  _ references. We get it, Santana. You’ve seen the movie.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Santana comments with a sneer. 

“You wish. Now, let me lay this out for you like one of Judy Garland’s late in life performances. You want--no, you  _ need _ to be here, and we both know it.” Kurt states and Santana groans, rolling her eyes in reflex at Kurt’s blatant tomfoolery. “So stop with the grumbling or I’m going to go sit with someone else.”

“Lies are not good for your complexion, Kurt.” 

Kurt gives her a knowing, disappointed look. “I’m absolutely serious. I will go sit with someone else and we will have a riveting discussion that won’t result in me obtaining a migraine.”

“That's the most asinine thing I’ve heard you say all day, and you honestly asked me if that teenage boy on the corner was Anna Wintour this morning.” Santana states flatly.

“Do you think I want to be here any more than you do?” Kurt asks seriously and Santana nods her head vigorously in response, because she absolutely believes Kurt wants to be here more than her. Kurt narrows his eyes and huffs childishly, “I would much rather be at home exfoliating.”

Santana scoffs. “No surprise there.”

Kurt glares at Santana. “That said, we both know that we cannot currently afford the roundtrip airfare with our current incomes. At this rate, we won’t see Lima until the Spring of next year, and even though that is a decidedly better time to visit, we both know that Winter is a better time for closure. Now do you want to continue to act like a petulant child who isn’t able to attend a Britney Spears concert or do you want to suck it up and do your part to get yourself home for Christmas?” Kurt clears his throat, the tips of his ears beet red. “To get  _ all _ of us home for the holidays.”

Kurt’s never been particularly good at alluding - he’s far too much a showman for basics - but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist for Santana to know that what Kurt really means is  _ get Rachel home in time for Hanukkah _ . While she’s annoyed by his dramatics (like they couldn’t just have this conversation this morning over espressos) she’s thankful that he doesn’t say it, that he doesn’t state her failures out loud, for the whole world to hear.

Working weekends at a popular Coyote bar in the Lower East Side happens to provide Santana with a somewhat steady income. While not enough on it’s own, if combined with Kurt’s part time assistant gig and Rachel’s waitressing job at a local diner, they manage to have enough to scrape by. Their combined income is enough to secure a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and booze in their cabinets (and coincidentally, Santana’s knapsack). Unfortunately, it’s nothing to write home about, especially while attempting to live in New York City, and it’s definitely not enough to get them home in time for the holidays.

Here’s the thing that she needs to make clear - Santana doesn’t want to go back to Lima. She’d much rather rage every night while listening to the Grateful Dead with a bunch of bros, then spend time back home with “family”. It’s a sore subject between her and her roommates. While the disastrously dynamic duo and her surprisingly agree on slew of things, this just wasn’t one of them. Santana knows that they expected her to support their decision immediately because who wouldn’t want to go home after a few months of lukewarm success? 

She can understand their bewilderment at her outright objection to participate, at least in the beginning. Three months just wasn’t enough for Santana, it wasn’t enough space between herself and her past. And it’s not that she needs more time, no. Time inches forward like the little train that could and Santana knows that it will continue to do so, no matter the state of her heart. 

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Santana’s heart. 

Sure, it had been four long months since Brittany had crushed her heart. And three months since Santana showed up on the doorstep of the gay wonder twins, a duffel bag in one hand and a heavy heart in the other. But some aches just don’t go away, no matter how badly you want them to. Even with time.

The truth of it is...she’s worked so hard on distancing herself from Lima, her parents, and most importantly, from Brittany, that she’s terrified that as soon as she goes back, all of her hard work will be undone by a simple glance. She’s afraid that once she steps foot in her small town, she’ll again be that small person, and that fear is more than enough to make her want to stay away.

But another, more immediate worry, has recently taken up residency in her being: Rachel. Santana would never admit this out loud, but she’s concerned about the loud brunette. Concerned about the long nights and the empty eyes and the quiet mornings that aren't filled with show tunes. After everything Rachel has done on Santana’s behalf...after what happened with Finn -- no,  _ to _ Finn...she owes Rachel this, Santana knows that much. She owes Rachel that closure. As much as it pains her to fucking admit it, Rachel needs this, and there’s no way she can get there alone. 

“I really hate you sometimes, Hummel,” Santana scowls.

Kurt looks at Santana sympathetically, his voice warm and his words without malice. “The feeling is mutual, Lopez. Now. On to more important matters. We both know that boy easily passed as Anna Wintour from afar.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

 

* * *

 

“Girl, you sure this is a good idea?”

Quinn looks around the small storage room that the company is clearly trying to mask as an interview room. Her eyes glance over a handful of despondent faces before settling on the girl next to her. 

“It’s not like I have many choices, Cedes,” Quinn answers, her hands tugging at the end of her sleeves reflexively. “The library is closed for winter break and I need a job. Otherwise, I’ll have to go home for the holidays.”

Mercedes nods her head. “You know you could always come home with me, Q. My parents love you and Antwan gets a kick out of bringing a white girl with us to church on Sundays.”

Quinn laughs at that. Antwan is Mercedes’ seven -- actually  _ eight--  _ year old brother, who has the tendency to often shout out loud about how Quinn is the only white person in their family. Because, well, he’s an eight year old child. “Your family has already done more than enough for me. I want to do this on my own, for myself, you know?”

“I hear it,” Mercedes shoots Quinn a soft look. It’s clear she wants to touch on Quinn’s statement. Instead, Mercedes hesitates, her mouth opening and closing several times before she releases a long sigh. “I always got you.”

Quinn nods because if there is anything she  _ does _ know, it’s that. She’s so grateful to have Mercedes in her life, to have someone she can rely on. It makes all of this easier: a new city, a separation from her family, her accident.  But it also makes her question whether or not she is holding Mercedes back from other opportunities. “The bright side is that you don’t have be here, too. Go home. Watch the rest of  _ The Real Housewives of Atlanta _ .”

Mercedes swats Quinn’s elbow and gives her a  _ look _ . “Girl, you know I will not binge watch our favorite show without you. Plus, we both know I’m really here so that I can get the discount. You know I loves me a good bargain.”

“You’re right,” Quinn concedes, pulling Mercedes into an awkward hug. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I’m gonna go grab a cup of coffee before this thing starts,” Mercedes says when she pulls back, a soft smile on her lips. “You want anything?”

Quinn brushes the hair away from her face and smiles. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Mercedes nods. “BRB, girl. Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.”

 

* * *

“We appreciate all of your patience during this interview process.” Gerald -- or was it Kevin? -- states from the front of the room. He had facilitated the majority of the interview process, much to Santana’s chagrin, assigning Kurt and Santana two separate interview teams. While both Kurt and Santana had managed to make it to the very end, it was not without severe self control.The guy’s nasally voice was enough to make Santana want to claw her eyes out, let alone stay in focus during the group interview. She’s honestly surprised she was able to exercise such self restraint this early in the day to make it to the end of the interview.

Just kidding. It’s no surprise that she was able to charm her way through the interview -she’s Santana Lopez and if there is one this Santana Lopez is good at, it’s being fucking amazing.

“Give yourselves a huge pat on the back for making it this far in the process,” Kevin -- or was it Gerald?-- says as his eyes scan the faces of those remaining in the room. “I’ve posted a list with your names and the positions that have been assigned to you. We will be emailing you your schedules later tonight. Please let me know if you have any questions. Peace!”

Santana’s brows raise in Kurt’s direction upon hearing Gerald’s (Kevin’s?) sign off. “ _ Peace? _ ” Santana repeats, her tone mocking. “I assumed only dads or people born in the 1960’s used  _ peace _ seriously.”

Kurt pats her knee sympathetically. “There, there. Let’s go grab lunch before you make someone cry.”

Santana pushes Kurt’s hand away. “That was one time, Kurt, and the woman came for me when I did not send for her.”

“She was seventy-two years old and she was just trying to maneuver around you in the bodega!” Kurt whisper-shouts.

“That’s what she wanted you to think, Hummel.”

Kurt grimaces and stands, signalling at Santana to do the same. “Let’s go.”

While Santana isn’t one to normally take orders (especially not from Kurt), she’s beginning to feel the pangs of hunger deep within her belly. “Please tell me we’re going to the diner,” Santana gripes as her stomach churns out a light rumble.

“Of course,” Kurt says, suddenly curious. “Why?”

Santana grins widely at Kurt, showcasing her pearly whites in an effort to appear more inviting. Kurt’s bewildered face is enough to let Santana know that he’s not buying what she’s trying to sell. 

Santana quickly drops the smile and looks at Kurt seriously. “Because I have every intention of making you pay for several stacks of pancakes and a couple sides of bacon.”

 

* * *

“Makeup assistant. Now we’re talking,” Mercedes raises her brows at Quinn. “I’ll spot the fly picks before anyone else.”

Quinn rolls her eyes affectionately. Mercedes is always on the hunt for the next new thing. Whether that be clothing, makeup, shoes, etc. While Mercedes’s shopping antics were often amusing, Quinn would sometimes feel a pang of jealousy when tagging along. With her trust fund and with her father picking up the tab on all of their expenses, Mercedes has zero need for a part time position, and plenty of free time to spend money on items that Mercedes  _ wants _ rather than  _ needs _ . Quinn wishes the same could be true for her.

“Aw man, Q. We’re not in the same department,” Mercedes comments. “That’s some fresh hell.”

“What?” Quinn asks as she bends down to inspect the list, completely ignoring the sharp pain in her lower back. “Holiday constructor? What does that mean?”

Mercedes shrugs. “Beats me. Looks like they’ve got you paired with someone named Santana Lopez? Do you remember which girl that was?” 

Quinn straightens her position, the pain in her back beginning to become unbearable, and grimaces. “No. But I suppose I’ll find out on Tuesday.”

“True.” Mercedes glances around the now empty room. “Girl, this place is really starting to creep me out. You ready to head out?”

Quinn nods. “Yes, of course. Do you want to stop for coffee on the way home?”

Mercedes bumps her shoulder against Quinn’s. “Did Beyoncé have one of the best albums of 2016?”

Quinn follows Mercedes to the exit. “Well, I don’t know. Did she?”

“Yes, Q,” Mercedes sighs loudly. “Have you listened to the playlist I made you? It’s a carefully structured playlist of Queen Bae’s defining jams.”

“I’m working on it.”

Mercedes glares at Quinn, clearly not buying Quinn’s response. “We both know that’s code for  _ no _ . As soon as we get home you’re listening to it.”

“Okay,” Quinn laughs. “Whatever you say, ‘Cedes. But only if you promise that you won’t make me sing Halo at karaoke again.”

“Hey!” Mercedes exclaims, her hand over her heart in a front to appear...well, affronted. “We killed at Diva night.”

“No,  _ you  _ killed. I just flailed around in the back like an insane person.”

Mercedes grins and loops her arm through Quinn’s, as she pulls them both towards the door. “If Destiny’s Child has taught us anything, it’s that everyone needs a Michelle.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

 

* * *

“So Martin decides the best way to discern our work ethic is to role play. He assigns me the role of the overzealous sales rep, which whatever, I’m clearly more the fashion forward customer. Anyway, I take on the role with gusto because this is a great opportunity to sharpen my acting skills, right?”

Rachel reaches for the glass of wine to her right and nods. “Right.”

“I thought his name was Gerald,” Santana says, grimacing at the sight of Kurt standing in front of her, in full on reenactment mode. “Or Kevin.”

Kurt fixes her with a disbelieving look. “No, his name was Martin. Were you even paying attention?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Kurt,” Santana takes a sip from the glass of wine in her hand and shrugs. “I was not.”

A moment of silence passes while Rachel’s gaze moves back and forth between Santana and Kurt. When another beat passes and the room is still silent, Rachel chuckles lightly, clearly amused by Kurt’s exasperation and Santana’s nonchalance. 

For the record, Santana isn’t purposefully trying to be difficult. Well, no more than usual, anyway. She’s just feeling restless. It doesn’t help that they’re sitting in their tiny apartment, sharing a bottle of cheap wine that Rachel’s boss gave her, rehashing the highs and lows from their day. Like some modern day Brady Bunch. 

It’s a routine that Santana has regularly mocked, because well, she’s  _ Santana Lopez _ . While her family had always provided for her financially, they had also been fairly absent throughout the formative years of her life. They were always too busy saving lives to notice anything about her. With limited interactions and many disappointments, it didn’t take long for her to trade in sentiment for well placed barbs. 

Until Santana declined her acceptance offer to UCLA, her parents had never even expressed an interest in her day-to-day life. Even then, Santana is fairly certain that their interest was based off of pretenses and not off of a desire to see her succeed. And that’s  _ okay,  _ really, because Santana has been on this earth for eighteen years now and she knows that families are nothing like you see on tv. Love is a fallacy. It’s really about obligation and power and loyalty. She knows that, that’s why Santana wasn’t that surprised when her parents threatened to cut her off financially. Maybe, if she had had one of those families in those tv shows, the ones that annoyingly talk about everything, she would have felt a need to please them. To make them happy, even. But instead, Santana left. She shed her skin, her financial security, her reality, and let her feet carry her straight to Brittany. A plan filled with teenage turmoil, her small savings, and adventure wrapped in her head.

And when she found Brittany with Sam, honestly Santana had never thought such pain could be possible. So she ran. She ran until she couldn’t anymore. She didn’t even know where she was going until she ended up on Rachel’s doorstep. 

It’s true, this is not Santana’s strong suit. She feels ridiculous that she’s sitting down and discussing her day on a regular basis. But, well, she’s learned that there are worse things. Things that Santana would rather not focus on. Things that involve blue eyes and soft touches and promises of forever that never got that far. Things that involve girls crying over boys who surround themselves in hotel rooms with needles, issues, and problems far older than them. 

Santana feels her stomach drop as her mind flashes to memories of blonde hair and pale skin, of Rachel and Finn, of almost weddings and too soon memorials. It’s too much...too much  _ feeling _ in one moment, too much  _ everything  _ when she’s worked so hard not to be  _ anything _ like the girl who was stuck in that doorway, her legs frozen and her heart heavy.

Without much thought, Santana immediately downs the rest of her wine, attempting to chase the images away with alcohol. She then reaches for the bottle in the center of the table, but Kurt is faster. He grabs the wine bottle and moves the bottle with him so that it is on the other side of the table, no longer within Santana’s reach. 

“Hummel. Now is not the time to try me,” Santana warns. “Give me the wine.”

“Why?”

It’s Rachel that answers Kurt, her voice firm and her body steady. “Kurt, please. We were having a nice time.” Rachel gestures between the three of them, her arm flailing about with no real end goal in mind. “Just give Santana the wine.”

“You were the one that said we’d each get five uninterrupted minutes to rehash our day, and Santana is purposefully ruining mine!” Kurt shouts dramatically. He quickly grabs the bottle of wine and places it angrily in the center of the table. “Whatever,” Kurt mutters as he steps away from them. “Have at it. I’m heading to bed.”

Rachel’s expression softens. She reaches out to Kurt and tries to grab onto his arm before he gets too far, and fails. “Kurt.”

Kurt ignores Rachel completely. He heads straight into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Santana doesn’t look at Rachel or even bother glancing at Kurt. Instead, she reaches for the wine and takes a long drink straight from the bottle, grimacing as the wine burns all the way down to her belly. 

“So,” Rachel starts. “Do  _ you _ want to talk about your day?”

Santana watches Rachel stand up from her seat. “Not particularly.”

Rachel laughs and walks towards Santana, her feet padding across the floor quietly. Rachel stops in front of Santana, glancing at Kurt’s door to make sure that it’s closed. Once satisfied that Kurt is not going to exit his bedroom, Rachel slowly lowers her body on to Santana’s lap, her legs straddling Santana’s thighs. Santana’s right hand immediately finds its place on Rachel’s waist while her left hand continues to hold on to the wine. Rachel shifts her body until she’s settled and her eyes are level with Santana’s before gently prying Santana’s fingers off the bottle wine. When Santana opens her mouth to protest, Rachel silences Santana with a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“Ignore Kurt,” Rachel says after pulling away. “He’s having a hard time with the Blaine situation.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Santana eyes follow Rachel as she leans back to take a heavy drink from the bottle, her weight settled warmly on Santana’s thighs. “I keep telling Hummel that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone. But for some reason he refuses to heed my excellent advice.”

“It definitely seems to have worked well for you, doesn’t it?” Rachel winks before setting the wine down on the floor next to them. 

It’s the closest Rachel has ever gotten to acknowledging this  _ thing  _ that they are doing. This thing that started six weeks ago. This thing that doesn’t even have a name, because it’s more of a habit. One that lingers in quiet moments and takes space in the air between them. Ominous with its lack of clarity, but clear in its existence. It’s strange but it’s almost...easier to understand Rachel when she’s all soft breaths and hot skin. 

Rachel loops both her arms over Santana’s shoulders and hums quietly, easily pulling Santana out of her thoughts. In response, Santana leans forward and rests her head on Rachel’s shoulder, her nose breathing in the soft scent of Rachel’s lavender perfume. It’s clear when Rachel pulls Santana in closer that she is no rush to move, and honestly, Sanatana is in no rush to make her. 

She tries to maintain her position for as long as possible, but ultimately pulls away after a minute or two, the warmth of intimacy beginning to become too much. When Rachel’s eyes lower to Santana’s lips, she can feel her skin begin to prickle with goosebumps, displaying the tell-tale signs of inebriation. 

For a few beats, Santana internally debates leaning in and closing the gap between her and Rachel. But she hesitates because she’s not quite sure if either of them are drunk enough to follow through.  Drunk off of liquid courage or drunk off each other, Santana doesn’t really know. She likes to believe that she could readily differentiate between the two, but there are far too many similarities between liquor and Rachel these days.

Rachel leans back, her eyes scanning Santana’s face curiously. “Your silence is alarming. What are you festering over in that brain of yours?”

“Nothing,” Santana answers far too quickly.

Rachel sighs. "One of the things I have valued most during this...time, is the transparency of our relationship. So please, don’t lie to me.

“Rach-"

“Santana,” Rachel says sternly, her features softening. “You’ve seen me naked.”

Before Santana can shoot out some witty remark, she is thrown by a vibration coming from her bra. Rachel raises her brows in Santana’s direction, as Santana remains still.

“Well,” Rachel starts. “Are you going to get that?”

Santana nods her head stiffly and sticks her hand in her bra to pull out her cell phone. She quickly unlocks it and sees a notification for an email for Macy’s. She clicks on the email and does her best not to tut her tongue. 

**From: jobs@macys.com**

**To: santanaefflopez@gmail.com**

**Subject: Schedule**

_ Hello Santana, _

_ Welcome to the Macy’s seasonal team! _

_ Please find your schedule and position attached. Training will take place on Monday at 10am. Please bring two forms of ID so that we can complete your paperwork. _

_ Best Wishes, _

_ Holly Holiday _

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Santana taps her finger on the attachment. What type of monster names their child Holly Holiday? Her eyes glance over the email attachment and she feels her stomach drop for the second time that night.  “What the hell is a holiday constructor?”

Rachel looks at Santana’s phone curiously. “What?”

Santana shoves her phone into Rachel’s hands so that the brunette can read the email for herself. She reaches for the wine and downs the remainder in one swift drink. 

“This shit is going to suck.”

 

* * *

“Don’t look so worried, Q,” Mercedes says as she places her arm on Quinn’s right shoulder. “It’ll be alright. And even if it isn't, it's only six hours.”

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees as she continues to stand still in front of Macy’s side entrance. She's not quite sure what is holding her back. It’s not as if this is the first time she’s spent an evening without Mercedes, and Quinn is certainly not nervous about the job itself. Perhaps, she thinks, it is the unknown itself that worries Quinn.

Regardless of her reservations, Quinn throws caution to the wind and begins to reach for the door. Her arm has almost settled on the handle when Quinn feels a body slam into her from behind. Quinn stumbles forward in surprise, yelping as the wind is knocked out of her. Immediately she feels a familiar pain sharpen in her lower back and her eyes sting as tears automatically form.

“Watch where you're going!” Mercedes shouts, her hands instinctively reaching out to steady Quinn. Mercedes grabs Quinn’s shoulders and pulls Quinn until she’s facing Mercedes. “Hey. You good?”

Quinn attempts to smile at Mercedes, but it ends up looking more like a grimace. 

“Oh dear sweet Gaga,” Quinn hears a soft voice say from behind her. “We’re sorry, we didn’t see you.”

“Speak for yourself.” Another voice says. The voice is firm, and it’s enough to make the tears on Quinn’s cheeks feel ridiculous. “I am  _ not _ sorry.”

Mercedes lets go of Quinn’s shoulders and turns to face the people who are now bickering behind Quinn. Quinn follows her friend’s example and turns slowly. She’s met with an unusual sight. A man and woman around her age are standing shoulder to shoulder, arguing about common decency. The man has pale skin, soft eyes, and is dressed in a knee length trench coat, a top hat, what Quinn thinks are turquoise pants, and alligator shoes.

The woman, well. She’s dressed in tight blue dress that looks better suited for clubbing than walking around a department store. She’s wearing a leather jacket that she has thrown over her dress, her black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and she’s capped off the outfit with a pair of black heels. Her tan skin is smooth and shining like honey, but her gaze is anything but sweet. 

She’s the type of woman that Quinn would have previously felt threatened by. Beautiful, bold, and bitchy. The unholy trinity.

It takes Quinn a moment to realize that she’s blatantly staring. When she does, she quickly wipes away the tears from her cheeks and straightens her posture.

“Look,” Mercedes starts curtly. “I dunno if you’ve been paying attention, but you both bumped into us. The least you could say is sorry.”

Immediately the brunette in front of them bristles. The woman points her index finger at Quinn and sneers. “I don’t know if you're retarded or oblivious, but in case  _ you _ haven't noticed, the sidewalk is for  _ moving.” _

Mercedes steps around Quinn, her nostrils flaring, and Quinn is too shocked by the woman’s harsh words to stop her friend.   _ “ _ Yo! Did you just call my girl retarded?”

“No,” the brunette answers matter of factly. “I said I didn’t know if she was.”

“You little bi--” Quinn doesn’t know what pushes her to act so quickly. But somehow she completely ignores the pain in her back and pushes herself in between Mercedes and the rude woman.

Quinn turns around so that she’s facing Mercedes and grabs her friend’s face. “Hey, Cedes. I’ll meet you inside, okay?”

“Bu--”

Quinn shakes her head, effectively cutting her friend off. “No. I’ve got this, yeah?”

Mercedes deflates and pulls away from Quinn’s grasp. “Yeah, I hear you. See you inside, Q.”

Quinn waits until Mercedes has entered the department store before turning back toward the people behind her.

The man is clearly unsettled by Quinn’s calm resolve. His hands are fidgeting with the buttons on his coat and his lower lip is trembling. The woman, however, remains disinterested. The brunette’s focus is on her nails rather than on Quinn.

Quinn has been in these situations before.

Back when she was head cheerleader, back before the accident, Quinn’s authority was constantly challenged. She knows how to read the moment and she knows that what the other woman is looking for is a confrontation.

So Quinn doesn’t give it to her.

“Have a lovely day,” Quinn says eventually, with as much joy as she can muster. “The both of you.” With that, Quinn turns on her heel, leaving a clearly flabbergasted duo behind her.

Yeah, she’s still got it.

* * *

Santana is hangry.

Well, that’s only part of it, if she’s being honest.

She should have known that going the majority of the day without eating would deter her mood. But Santana had assumed that there would be enough time when walking to Macy’s from the train, where she would be able to grab a quick bite.

She was wrong.

Kurt (who was still all up in his feelings about the Blaine situation), had spent so much time getting ready that they ended up missing the early train. The next train had a delay in the tunnel, and so Santana had been forced to endure a 45 minute conversation focused solely on Kurt’s problems. Hint: they started with B-L and ended with A-I-N-E.

So, yeah. It’s not Santana’s fault that she snapped, not really. There is only so long that Santana can prevent Auntie Snix from making an appearance, and that threshold was crossed as soon as her body made contact with that blonde female. She spends enough of her day accommodating prissy girls who look just like Grace Kelly. Girls who live off of their daddy’s trust fund and spend their days oblivious to the rest of the world. Girls who remind Santana of herself, of who she used to be.

_ (Okay, so that’s definitely still a sore subject.) _

Either way. Santana isn’t sorry about her reaction.

What she was sorry for, however, was accepting this job in the first place. After receiving an earful from Kurt about her so called “behavior", she had to endure an hour long general training period with the woman named Holly Holiday. And honestly, if she didn’t want to die before that, she certainly did afterwards. Aside from the clear disregard for personal space, this Holiday character also used an alarming out of Spanish phrases to attempt to bond with Santana. She seemed to think it was considerate but really, it just came off a little (a lot) racist. 

By the time Holly stated that it was time for Santana to receive the designated training for her position, Santana was in full regret mode. The incompetence she could handle, even being paired with someone named Quinn - she imagined some Irish dude-bro that would spend his entire shift hitting on her - was salvageable. But the outfits that Holly was handing her in the employee hallway? That was going too far. 

“Here ya go. We’d like you to wear this outfit for your training, just so we can make sure the fitting is appropriate.” Holly says as she hands Santana an elf costume that really, looks to be from 1984. Santana barely has time to look over the elf outfit in detail before Holly hands her a green felt hat, green shoes, and pointy ears. “And here is the rest of it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Santana responds as she inspects the hat. She crinkles her nose as soon as she feels how scratchy the hat is against her skin, and how it someone smells like mothballs. 

“I know. It’s muy bonita, right?”

Santana raises her head to see if Holly is serious. Once Santana realizes that the crazy blonde in front of her is serious, she narrows her eyes at Holly. “That’s definitely one way of putting it.”

Holly laughs and grabs Santana’s shoulder, much to Santana’s protest. Holly quickly steers Santana towards the end of the hallway, her voice echoing off the walls. “You’re funny. I like that. Now come on, let’s get you dressed so that way you can be on your way to being part of this excellent team, amiga!”

Santana rolls her eyes before she can catch herself, her jaw clenches as she tries to contain a verbal lashing that is sitting on the tip of her tongue. She almost fears that her discomfort and anger is palpable due to her demeanor and just pure rage. Luckily Holly doesn't notice, as she’s too busy explaining how much she loves Mexican food, before she pushes Santana into the second to last door - which turns out to be a bathroom. 

Santana doesn’t release her sigh until she hears the lock click behind her, her hands gripping the outfit far too tightly. She glances at herself in the mirror and it takes all of her willpower not to run, to ditch this place and go somewhere where she could drown her sorrows and fill her belly. To go somewhere that was anywhere.

But then she thinks of Rachel. She thinks about how Rachel only smiles when she knows someone is watching and how Rachel sneaks extra glasses of wine when she doesn’t think anyone is paying attention. Santana thinks about how strange she’s felt this past few months and how it’s almost  _ fair _ for Santana’s heart to have nothing but aches surround it, because she’s not a particularly good, so of course Santana shouldn’t get to feel GOOD. ‘ _ But Rachel is a good person _ ,’ Santana thinks, ‘ _ and she doesn’t deserve to be like me. To feel like me.” _

So Santana grunts and slides off her shoes, her eyes tracing the resignation in her body in the mirror.

“Well,” Santana says, her voice quiet. “This should be fucking interesting.”

 


End file.
